Once, I held the tiny hand of my son, a boy so full of life that the sun seemed to shine just for him. But life is cruel. At five years old, his laughter was stolen by a relentless illness, a silent thief that came with no name and left us with nothing but questions and grief. I watched helplessly as his body grew weaker, his bright eyes dimming, until one day, he slipped away, leaving a void that nothing could ever fill.
The pain of losing my son was unbearable, a wound that never healed. But fate was not finished with me. Now, I find myself standing at the edge of that same abyss, holding my daughter, Basmala, who is suffering from the same merciless disease that claimed her brother.
I have a name for the disease now—a cruel adversary called Biotin-Thiamin-Responsive Basal Ganglia Disease. But knowing its name has brought little solace, for here in my country, I face an insurmountable wall. The doctors, despite their dedication, lack the experience to navigate the intricacies of this rare illness.
Each day feels like a battle fought with empty hands, as I watch my daughter suffer, knowing that the tools to save her exist but are just out of reach.
Every moment feels like a cruel replay, a haunting echo of my son’s suffering, as I fight with all that I have to keep Basmala from the same fate.
I am a father battling the shadows of loss, desperate to rewrite the story that ended so tragically with my son. Each day is a fight against time, against circumstances, against despair. I cling to hope, no matter how fragile, praying for the strength and means to save my daughter from slipping into the darkness that once took my son.
By Djillali Yagoub

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